“Yes, yes,” he thought as he watched a cube’s lifetime: ship to island to touch. “Fieldy is in for…oh I’d better not jinx what he’s in for by extroverting the details…how I’d love to just…but no, ‘spill the beans spoil the mash, spoiled the mash? Brace for a bash!’ grandmie thought, methinks. I wonder where she went toward the end she used to be such a lucid Lulu and then became a Lucy Screwsy to the word. Always wise, make no mistake. Ah, she learned me broad: I know my Shakespeare—I know she’s sluiced, by me or otherwise, what’s past is prologue and what’s past is sluicing and lying, foisting, denying; Dickens—some just want more, the mischievous, vagrant, and parasitic; my folk the mean golden, the fed, actu’lized; albeit, I think, grandmie died unforgink, on that one as, yes, she could have just dropped me, in soci’ty, n’ spared me some time, some purchasing dime, some ungood nonrhyme; my sincere soul mate: that Scotty, A. Smith, who saw plowman and sower as one and the same, that it’s always pro-me me to tend to mine own, ‘less best for me isn’t just, which case also I must, mind in-less-out prime! Wilson* b’ damned! To the Emersons, the Jameses I’m indebted for moral holidays ‘llowed to glide o’er, the top of a lake with frictionless co’er. In-less-out is for what to vie, so if it taunts I’ll FOIST, DENY; the pragm’ic way will ne’er relent; for pleasure-hunts I’ll ne’er repent! What comes—ensues—is it in short; I’ll invoke, always, its support.”

* This is excerpted from a novella I’m writing. The thinker suspects Wilson, Fieldy, and everyone else to be screwing his wife.

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I write the voices--inner and outer; sometimes nonhuman, inanimate voices loudly or quietly or silently or nonverbally telling me what I see and hear and taste and smell and feel and think, how others might sense and feel and think under real or imagined circumstances and how that all hangs together--that contribute to my inner life.